A Decade in a Cursed Eternity
by cwtch
Summary: Mathias had never felt so alone in these past ten years than the thousand he'd been alive to experience. Why did they all leave him? Where was his Lukas, his light in the darkness, his ethereal love?


It had been almost a decade since Lukas had left him. Almost a decade; tomorrow would count up exactly three thousand, six hundred and fifty days since Mathias had last seen Lukas, had last felt his silky skin, had last flourished in the warmth of his presence. It was exhausting, going through a day in the cold darkness in which Mathias's life had become, without a sun, without a guide, without his Lukas. The only person that kept him smiling was the small boy he left behind, but soon, he too slipped between the cracks of his hands, gone; Mathias was alone again.

"What drove them away?" he would cry into the void, but not a response nor relent of his sadness would he receive. And then he would really cry, the silent cry special to him because no one had ever witnessed it. Tantrums were frequent with his personality, but when he found himself alone and sad, wet tears would sloppily soak his face and noiseless hiccups and chokes would he make.

Sweet, bittersweet lonesome. Deafening quiet, or roaring silence: Mathias could not decide. It felt like both, sounded like both to his cold ears in his cold house in his bittersweet misery. On the warmer days of his isolation, he read, or wrote, or sung out his emptiness until he could not breath and was red in the face.

If he read, he would unravel the mysteries that made up his Lukas in the books he had left behind. If he wrote, he would pivot a paper, pen in hand-an inkwell not far away for he was a traditional, if not old school man-striving to convey the dull grey color that surrounded him; to extract and portray it on paper through English, Danish-even going far back to Old Norse-but no amount of words or runes, in any language, could possibly drag that damnable grey from between the black and white of his new life and condemn it on paper.

Other days, when he chose voice over all, were the days where he felt loneliest, where he realised that the cold was suitable a comfort for his darkness no longer. Indeed was it frightening, after he closed his mouth and the beautiful hoarseness of his voice faded from the echoing walls in his grey home, to hear again desolation a-knocking like a glacial breeze. When he ceased his fervent croon, the walls of his home mirrored the walls of his mind in the inky demonic rage and the illusion of a box caving in on itself. As he sung, his ears would ring from the passion and he could not hear the creaking of his bones or the stars scraping against grey sky or the shattering closeness of his end. All he heard, felt-all he knew-was his voice and the rawness of his soul as to the universe he so exposed it. When he finished, it was almost as if the evil of earth sucked up his cry and disappeared it from history; sometimes, did it feel rather like it was displayed to all and ignored. It left him with an itch of embarrassment at the back of his neck and a sore sadness in his heart.

"Oh, my Lukas," chanted he in his confines as if paraphrasing from Lukas's Shakespeare plays. Mathias found that at least there he could find and relate to the dramatic heartbreak he lived through. "My heart, my soul; ardent is thy love for thee. Stout is our bond, however strained tis between our distance from each other. Findeth me, rescue me, from this grey despair."

In a letter-one of the countless ones sealed within a chest at the foot of his bed-he once wrote, "When I see you, when I really look at you, I don't know how to feel. Everything falls away and consumed am I by you. Overwhelmed do I become with the intensity of your violet eyes, I freeze at your touch and melt at your voice. My mind brims with the sound of your musical laughter and the image of your smile, heart swelling because I know they are saved especially for me."

Of course was this written only weeks after he was taken from him, when his image was already slipping from Mathias's mind and he sought desperately to immortalize Lukas's essence while he was trapped in his eternal isolation. When he finished, Guilt bit his bones. Had he actually been so consumed in the belief that Lukas would never disappear from his side that he took his presence for granted? Was that the reason that he chose another place to call home, another bed to sleep in at night than his own? His own selfish blindness had driven him away?

The grip Guilt had on him led to the never ending depression his mind found itself encased in like a glass box. He would watch through the window as his happiness ran away, just like he had, and the light from the sky would fade to grey.

An additional time he wrote in yet another letter, it read, "I miss the sparkle of your eyes and the twinkles in the sky from the neverending stars you created in hopes to keep my life illuminated. The warmth has since faded from my body and the beauty has dulled and both your presences that once filled me with light is now gone; I am cold. Never more have I been before alone. The frigidity of my soul is in need of your warmth; please come home, my dearests."

That particular letter had been written only months after both Lukas and his brother Emil had deserted him. Two years later, in a drunken stupor, he had ripped it open and read it, only to be thrown into a rage because two years of isolation was worse than just two months. He felt anger at his past self for thinking that was the lowest he could have felt. He felt anger, and despair, and regret, and a longing for the easier days of his abandonment. When he was still ignorant of the years ahead and hopeful for his love to return to his side.

Mathias was a lonely man, now well into his thirties, but with his immortal curse, he feared that he would be turning thirty four every year. He now realized, with a deflating sigh, that Foolishness was the thing that pitched him into this swirling lifeless melancholy.


End file.
